Hermione's Letter
by Light Brown Shoes
Summary: For a little, ordinary girl who dreams of adventure and magics, of friends and greatness, the letter that makes her extraordinary is too important to put into words. This is the story of that girl's letter, and the days after she discovered she was, in fact, a remarkable young girl.


It was, without a doubt, one of the best days of her life.

She didn't really remember the events that led up to the letter; they were, after all, unimportant. In the minutes that the letter was found and read, a star was born, blue and shining so brightly it blinded her, the potential of what she could do, of who she would meet, of new friends… the dull minutes before were forgotten quickly, erased by the new, shiny minutes that screamed with potential and hope.

Her parents had questions, oh, yes, but she didn't. She grabbed the first letter, the one that invited her to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and ran to her room, leaving her parents pondering over the phone numbers on the other letters, the ones that were written for doubting Muggle parents who were already sharpened into aggressive unacceptance by the normalcy of life.

But Hermione… she knew. She knew it was real.

She slammed her door shut, heart pounding, lungs heaving so badly that the rising and falling of her chest was almost comically exaggerated.

She glanced around her room, at the stacks and stacks of fantasy and fiction books, neatly lined up on the bookshelves, (in alphabetical order, of course,), searching for the one-

Ah. There is was.

She charged over, slipping across her floor, yanking it off its place on the tippy-top of her bookshelf, the position that gave it the position of "Top Book", and held it in her hands, staring down at it.

She was silent for a minute, then she parted her lips and breathed out slowly, lightly.

"Thanks," she whispered, and then put the book back.

All those years spent reading and re-reading the novel, all those years imagining main character, a witch, (_Just like me!_ she thought excitedly,) would come to her school one day, preferably at recess, just as the others kids walked by her on their way to play hop-scotch, or jump rope, or the ever-changing in popularity jacks, leaving her alone, no invitation. But then Louella would walk up to her, her magic sparking around her and she would look at Hermione and only Hermione and hold out her hand, informing her of the mission, telling her that she was the only one who could do it as she helped her up, asking Hermione to be her best friend-

And now she's given her the next best thing.

Hermione laughed, her joy bubbling out from her chests, and dove to her bed, clutching the letter even tighter than before, her eyes scanning the words again and again.

_Witch…. Hermione Granger… invited… a school for magics…._

Laughter bubbled up again, and she buried her face in her pillow, shifting so her hair wouldn't be eaten as she chewed on her lip.

Thoughts were whirling through her mind- how she could go to school and impress everyone, making the teacher float in mid-air or burn the playground down, only to have it re-appear the next moment, how many friends she would have, all the parties and sleepovers she would be invited to because she was special, because she was magic…

Stifling another giggle, she sat up and went back to grab her book.

_If I practice today,_ she thought, _I'll be able to show them some spells tomorrow! And then, when I return next fall_- here she pulled down _The Witch of Ireland_- _I'll show them even more magic!_

Humming, her mind buzzing and heart racing, she opened the books to the back, where Louella's glossary of spells was kept. She read them over, more for reassurance that she had them memorized correctly than the need for instruction, and then placed the book down.

The worry that was ingrained from her previous failed attempts at magic was gnawing at the back of her mind, but she shoved it down, because _this time it will work!_ _I AM magic!_

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, holding out her hands in front of her, fingers splayed. One more deep breath, and then-

"Fire, Fire, come to me,

Spark and light all I see,

Burn and Burn what I command,

Do my bidding, kiss my hand."

She kept her eyes closed, waiting for the heat, waiting to smell smoke, to open her eyes slowly and see the flames held in her palm, waiting to burn anything, everything she commanded…

But she felt nothing.

She first opened one eye, slowly, her heart racing, and then dying and both her eyes were open now and she felt her throat closing up and her eyes were starting to sting because she wasn't special, was she? she was just another girl with no friends and-

And no wand.

She gasped, the thought so obvious she wanted to slap herself. _Of course!_

She charged to her desk drawer and yanked it open, her pens, so neatly organized before, flying askew and before she would have fixed it, but now…

Now she gripped her wand tightly in her hand. It was made of balsa wood, delicate and ornate, with small cats and suns drawn on it carefully. She hadn't played with her wand in years- she wasn't a child, after all, she realized that _real_ magic was done with hands.

But… but maybe she was wrong? What if Louella's author was, as Hermione had suspected for years, actually Louella herself? And she wrote down her adventures- but she had to leave some parts out? To keep non-magical kids, the kids not Hermione, from hurting themselves? So she kept out the part about the wand to protect others?

Louella would do that.

So Hermione grinned and raised her wand, pointing it at the empty picture frame she had bought, (the picture was still being developed at the store down the street, but at the rate it was getting done she could afford to buy three more, once a week, before she would have the picture,) and whispered her chant again, this one the exploding one:

"Burst to pieces, burst; burst!

as of now you've been cursed-

Shatter, shatter! Fall apart!

Do what's told, play your part!"

She waited, holding her breath, for a long, long time.

There was nothing.

She was eleven years old. She was too old to cry, much less throw a fit.

But she was an eleven year old who had been told that she was special, who had been given the hope of uniqueness and friends, who had, for a glorious half hour, had dreamed situations she was positive were going to come true. She was an eleven year old who had had it taken away from her.

Her heart ached, her throat was closing up so she felt she couldn't breathe. She had never been more upset, she had never felt so sad, so helpless.

So she dropped to the floor and screamed.

She screamed louder than she had ever screamed before, she threw herself to her back and howled, the type of howl that very few people have the misfortune to hear, the type of howl that brings parents running with burglars and death and worse running through their minds. The door was thrown open, her father barreling in, almost stepping on his daughter in his haste to save her. Her mother stumbled in and dropped to her knees next to her daughter, grabbing her and clutching her closely, and Hermione curled into her mother-ly-ness and sobbed even harder, her mind black and empty save for the thought that she wasn't special flashing over and over.

"Honey? Honey! What's wrong? What's wrong?"

"Hermione? Hermione, talk to us, sweetie. Hermione?"

But she couldn't choke out anything more than a garbled, "I-It doesn't w-w-work!" before her throat closed up again and she couldn't speak, could only cry. Her mother was asking her what didn't work when she felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned to see her husband, worry etched across his face, holding Hermione's wand. Her heart dropped and she thought of the letter they had thrown in the trash, dismissing the prank before it got too far.

"Oh, Hermione," she whispered into her daughter's hair, "I'm sorry, honey… I'm so, so sorry…."

Hermione was shaking with sobs, her body shivering, her face red. She felt her father's arms wrap around her and her mother and she cried and cried and she felt so, so heavy-

That was when the doorbell rang.

They were going to ignore it. Hopefully, whoever was outside would be able to tell that, while they were home, they had a distressed child to attend to. The thought passed through that, hopefully, it wasn't the police coming _about_ the screaming child, but they would wait and see.

Whoever was at the door knocked a second time.

And then a third.

With a sigh, Hermione's father rubbed her back one last time and stood up, walking quietly out of the room while her mother pulled her closer.

Several minutes passed, but Hermione was so tired now that she noticed nothing but her own heaviness, her own weight.

Her mother, however, was listening to faint voices from the front, her husband's, and then an unfamiliar voice, a woman's voice. She could make out various words, words like, "Daughter," and "Magic," and "Real,", words she didn't- couldn't- accept.

But then something washed over her.

It was a sense of calm, a sense of understanding.

Magic _is _real, she knew then. She felt off, like something had invaded her, but she knew this. And, despite how much she wanted to, she couldn't deny it.

She turned her head just as her husband and a woman appeared in Hermione's doorway. The woman was old, very old. She looked frail and a little hunched over- but she still looked powerful.

She smiled at Hermione's mother, and then nodded to Hermione.

"I'd like to speak with her, if that's okay," she said. "Alone- at first. You can join us later."

Hermione's mother opened her mouth to protest, but then stopped. She didn't see the woman's mouth move, she didn't hear the woman whisper. But, rather suddenly, she did know that she would allow this stranger and her daughter to speak with each other, alone.

It took her four or five times to get Hermione's attention.

She stopped sobbing, only crying, now, and opened her eyes, looking up at her mother's face, now so close to her own for the first time since she was seven or eight.

"Honey," she said. Her voice was heavy, too, like Hermione's body- doubting, and, maybe, a little scared.

Her father spoke next, and Hermione's gaze traveled to him, and then immediately focused on the woman, a new woman, in her room. "I- There's a woman here to see you."

Hermione hiccupped, her breath jagged in her throat, in her lungs, and looked at the woman more closely.

The woman smiled down at her, her face and body old, Hermione noted, but her eyes… they were brighter than an old person's she had ever seen.

"Hi, Hermione." The woman said. She had a warm voice. "Seems like you've got a bit of a fright… did it not work?"

Hermione's heart slowed, her mind slowed, time slowed.

And then she nodded.

The woman smiled again. "It didn't work for me the first time, either."


End file.
